The phrase springs unbidden, a booby trap, like some ghastly practical joke my mind plays on me.
I’m aware of commotion from inside. Then Tony is here, coming out of the patio door, and Denise behind him. Tony is shaking his head as he reaches me; he embraces me, a hard, swift pressure before he steps back. And it’s all I can bear. Resisting the sense memory of a thousand other hugs, his height, his bulk a comfort. Before I know it I’m hugging Denise, who’s not laughing now. We’ve never touched before, not even a handshake.
We’re a similar height, Denise and I. Both with that padding that comes with middle age. Even if my arms and legs retain their original shape, my belly sticks out and my bum seems to have doubled in size. Denise is chunkier than me, fatter in the face too. She smells of perfume, roses and gardenia, and a trace of tobacco smoke.
As I pull back, we share a look, acknowledging a new settlement. I nod my thanks. I’ve never seen her without make-up on. It’s just one in a whole stream of firsts in the wake of what has happened.
We go inside. Tony can’t sit still. Like me he prowls and patrols, pausing to sweep both hands over his head and clutch at his hair. It’s a gesture that makes me think of screaming. Of that Munch painting.
Once I’ve told Tony and Denise everything I can, which is precious little, he fires one question after another at Kay. What are you doing to catch who did this? How did he get in? Did the neighbours see anything? Was it a burglary? Can’t they use dogs or something? Have you found Broderick Litton? What about this prowler? He looks older, wrinkled face, pot belly. His hair is thick and wavy still, although there’s lots of grey and white among the original bronze colour.
Kay’s answers are honest, considered, all disappointing.
He shakes his head, scowling, his mouth tight. He is angry and he is impotent.
Denise doesn’t say much, but periodically she goes and touches him, clutches his hand, puts her palm on his chest. Calming him.
I look away.
Florence wakes and sits on Jack’s lap. She’s subdued, she must be bewildered; my house isn’t that big, and it’s full of people, including Kay, who she’s never met before.
‘Kay?’ I take her into the kitchen. ‘What do we tell Florence?’
‘Jack says she didn’t see anything?’ Kay checks.
‘That’s right; well,’ I amend, ‘as far as he knows.’ He was out at the gym so it’s possible Florence could have seen or heard something. There must have been some noise. Things were broken, weren’t they? Why do I think that? My impression of their living room is so sketchy, like a painting where the central subject is clear but everything beyond it is smudged and out of focus.
